


From that time on, the world was hers for the reading

by Quiet_Constellation



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: And MJ is whipped I guess, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Peter is soft, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 23:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16628801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Constellation/pseuds/Quiet_Constellation
Summary: Peter thinks about his hands. How they’re still shaking as he’s holding his phone, how his brain hurts from being in so much stress all the time. He could start talking about that. Instead, he asks:‘What were you reading?’‘Poetry. It helps me sleep, usually,’ she adds, a page turning in the background.Poetry sounds about good right now. Anything to set his mind off Titan, really.‘Would you mind...reading it to me? Please?’-----Set after the events of Infinity War. Peter is having trouble sleeping, so he asks MJ for help.





	From that time on, the world was hers for the reading

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I would not be able to post this without the lovely help of [doofusface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface) !

**From that time on, the world was hers for the reading.**

-Betty Smith

  


It’s almost midnight when he wakes up, shaking, and it’s not from the New York winter cold.

 

Peter has always been bad at managing his anxiety.

  
Sure, things have changed since he’s been dubbed New York City’s friendliest hero.

He’s become stronger, more agile, and probably smarter.

But that doesn’t prevent him from suffering from the aftermath of the situations he constantly finds himself in.

 

It’s almost masochistic, if you think about it.

 

Two years ago, he used to get panic attacks just seeing Flash’s car parked out front Midtown Science, which is why both him and Ned would make sure to arrive early every day.

He had ways to cope. Simple solutions to deal with simple problems.

 

But now, not only does he willingly throw himself into danger, he has no outlet for any of it.

He’s part of the Avengers, and he could talk to any of them, he _should_ talk to any of them. But his stupid pride prevents him from it.

He’s by far the youngest, and despite proving more than once that he’s worthy of his title, he still feels like they don’t trust him to be strong enough to withstand the weight he carries on his shoulders.

 

_And maybe he isn’t._

 

Every single one of them is always busy with politics, world safety, and/or creating new tech.

His main concern right now is whether he’s gonna pass History or not.

 

He asked for this. He’s asked to stay close to the ground, to keep looking out for the little guy. When prompted, he says it’s because he wants to have time to focus on his friends and family. Which is true enough, but that’s just one part of it.

 

The reality of it is, he’s terrified.

The suit may enhance his natural capabilities, protect him from cuts and bruises, but that’s all it does. There’s nothing, no secret function to quiet down the thoughts, or ease the tension he feels in the pit of his stomach.

So he’s terrified. Of messing everything up, of May having to stand in front of two graves on Hallow’s Eve. Of Ned, and MJ, and the rest of their friends looking around, never to find him. Of dying, again.

 

He can’t exactly go to a therapist and start talking about all of this.

 

What would he even say?

 

_Hi, I’m Spider-Man and I suffer from PTSD, I think?_

 

A couple months ago, people were literally disappearing into thin air.

Now he’s back in class like nothing happened, like he doesn’t remember collapsing, air knocked out of his lungs, while Tony’s face goes from shock to total horror.

 

Every other week, he’s back there. Around him, everything is red and desolate.

And when he stares at his arms, he only sees dust.

The only thing separating nightmare from reality is the fact that he feels nothing in the dream.

 

In the dream, he disappears like sand blowing in the wind. There is no pain, no anguish. He’s just… gone.

 

He can’t talk to May about it, not when she hasn’t forgiven Tony yet.

 

Staring at the crack in the ceiling, Peter counts the seconds, trying to tether himself to reality.

He’s already certain it’s not going to work, not when his heart is going a mile a minute, and his lungs feel like a forest fire.

 

So he picks up his phone, ready to call Ned. His thumb hovers on the dial button.

He can’t keep burdening his friend like this. With every secret, every grim story, the toll it’s taking on Ned  becomes more visible. He may joke about his grey hair, but Peter sees his worried glances, the hand on his shoulder, squeezing as if to make sure he’s still there.

 

It’s bad enough that Peter can’t be one, so Ned needs to be a normal teenager. Meaning that the only thing that should stress him out that much should start with student and end with loans.

Going through his contact list despite knowing it’s completely useless, Peter stops on MJ’s number.

Cold, composed MJ.

 

There’s no way she’s awake.

There’s also no way she’d answer, and that’s why he presses dial.

 

‘Yes?’

 

_Crap._

 

‘Hey, it’s me. Peter. Parker, I mean.’

‘I know.’

 

He sits up a little straighter, as if she could see him. You never know with MJ. Her tone always carries a threat, and he’d rather be ready for it this time.

‘Did I wake you?’

 

There’s a humming sound on the other end, and she answers:

‘Hm no, I was reading. What’s up?’

 

Peter thinks about his hands. How they’re still shaking as he’s holding his phone, how his brain hurts from being in so much stress all the time. He could start talking about that. Instead, he asks:

‘What were you reading?’

‘Poetry. It helps me sleep, usually,’ she adds, a page turning in the background.

 

Poetry sounds about good right now. Anything to set his mind off Titan, really.

‘Would you mind...reading it to me? Please?’

 

He sounds so small and vulnerable that he hopes his cell signal is bad enough to hide the worst of it.

‘Is this a weird fetish of yours?’

‘MJ, please. I just...’

 

He glances at the crack in his ceiling once more. His eyes hurt.

’I need this. Please?’

 

* * *

 

She wheezes. She hears it. The hopelessness in his voice, and she knows she can’t say no.

 

Like she’d be able to refuse him anything anyway. She clears her throat.

_‘It’s a green hollow, where a river is singing_

_Crazily hanging on the grasses rags_

_Of silver; where the sun, from the proud mountain,_

_Is shining: it’s a little valley bubbling with sunlight._

 

_A young soldier, his mouth open, his head bare,_

_And the nape of his neck bathing in cool blue watercress,_

_Is sleeping; he is stretched out on the grass, under the skies,_

_Pale in his green bed where the light falls like rain._

 

_Feet in the gladiolas, he is sleeping. Smiling like_

_A sick child would smile, he takes a nap:_

_Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold._

_Fragrances do not make his nostrils quiver;_

_He sleeps in the sun, hand on the breast,_

_Peacefully. He has two red holes in his right side.’_

 

She’s met with silence, and she shifts in her bed uncomfortably. It’s no secret that she’s reading all the time. She’s constantly walking around school with a bag filled with books, despite her dad warning her about the possible effects on her posture.

She loves reading. She loves being transported by words, by the ability of one author to borrow and string them together to weave a universe only them know the entrance to.

 

She doesn’t, however, like reading out loud. She doesn’t need a reminder that her voice is too low, her tone too detached. Still, for Peter, she’d put the minimal amount of effort in.

 

‘Pretty dark, for a nighttime read,’ he finally replies.

 

She shrugs.

‘I like it. There’s something to be said for kids disappearing before their time.’

 

He swallows loudly, and she frowns.

‘Peter, is everything okay?’

 

She bites her lip, knowing full well he’s probably not okay, and in fact hasn’t been for a while. She’s seen the dark circles under his eyes, the bruises that take longer to heal.

He won’t confide in her, she’s sure of it. She’s known his secret for a year and a half, and he seems dead set on not letting her in on the whole Spiderling thing.

So she pretends she doesn’t know, and that she doesn’t mind.

She does, though. She minds a Lot. But she can’t force him to confess.

 

When he finally opens his mouth, the words he says tie a knot in her throat.

‘Not really, no.’

 

She sits up, her book falling to her side. This is new.

‘Do you wanna…talk about it?’

‘...I don’t even know where to start.’

‘Maybe you can start by telling me why you’re calling me, and not Ned,’ she adds softly.

‘I don’t want to worry him anymore than I already have. ‘

 

He sounds really distraught, and her heart clenches with a familiar pang.

As a general rule, she keeps out of other people’s business. She doesn’t like mingling, nor does she find her classmates particularly interesting. She’s pretty sure that she won’t see most of them the minute they graduate, and that’s just a fact of life.

 

But Peter… Peter is different. She wouldn’t mind keeping in touch with him. Like she wouldn’t mind knowing a little bit more about his life. His actual life, not just what he thought about the _Solo_ fiasco or their Spanish homework.

It’s weird, in a way. The one boy she wouldn’t mind knowing is the one who’s elusive as hell and has more secrets than a MIB agent.

 

‘I just. I need to talk about… this stuff to _someone_ or I’m just going to explode and I, and I, I-’

‘Talk to me, Peter. I can take it, I promise,’ she says softly.

 

* * *

 

This isn’t good. His chest is pounding again, not as fast as before, but in a deeper, more painful way. His throat tightens and he feels the tears come up again.

It’s not MJ’s fault she decided to read poetry about dead teenagers, but it’s unfortunate to say the least.

Each time he so much as closes his eyes to try and focus on the moment, on her voice, he loses himself and instead sees Ned’s face, his happy demeanor replaced by a mask of despair.

 

_In his dreams, Ned reaches out, but he can’t grab him, because Peter is already gone. And when his friend yells, he can’t say a thing. There is no goodbye, just like there wasn’t on Titan._

  


Tears finally start rolling down his cheeks. He’s so tired, so damn tired of having to pretend all the time. He’s not strong, he’s not a hero, he’s not even a good friend, or a good nephew.

He’s just Peter, and it’s not enough.

 

‘I just. I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m living in a nightmare every time I just… close my eyes. So I can’t sleep.’

‘Peter…’

 

He hears the sadness in her voice, and he breaks down. Even MJ, tough, cold MJ, thinks he’s pitiful.

‘I’m sorry, this was a mistake.’

 

He moves to hang up, when MJ almost yells:

‘Wait!’

 

She inhales deeply.

_‘Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.’_

 

He stops her.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m reading _Emma_ to you. It’s fine, if you don’t want to talk about what’s wrong. But for decathlon purposes, we need you well rested. So shut your pretty mouth, and listen to the sweet sound of my voice as I lull you to sleep.’

 

He manages a half smile.

‘This is probably the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me, you know.’

 

She grunts.

‘Don’t mention it.’

 

As she resumes her reading _,_ Peter focuses less on the words than her actual voice, and slowly but surely lets his mind drift off to a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 _‘_ I don’t get it. Does she like Mr. Knightley, or not? Why is she trying to set him up with her friend?’

‘She’s delusional, obviously. Now let me finish, I was almost at the end of the chapter.’

 

It’s the third night this week that they’re doing this. She’s been calling Peter every day at midnight, to save him from having to do it himself, and reads to him until she hears the soft sound of his breathing as he sleeps.

And maybe she keeps listening to it for a little longer than necessary, maybe she even puts it on speaker phone. It’s not creepy, she tells herself. She does it because she cares, and she wants to make sure he’s sound asleep by the time she hangs up.

 

And so, without them ever mentioning again, it becomes a thing. Their thing.

She wonders if he’s ever going to bring up his night terrors again, or the Big Secret. He probably won’t, but in case he does, she’s there, a phone call away.

‘Why do you even read those old novels anyway?’

‘This is not the deal, Parker. I read, you listen. Or, if you want to talk…’

‘No. No, it’s fine. Keep reading, I wanna know what happens.’

 

She hears his sheets ruffle, and tries not to think too hard about the fact that it’s almost as if they were sleeping together, side by side.

 

MJ has never been good with intimacy.

Sure, she’s had a couple crushes, and boyfriends, but they were more the kind that you just… find there, next to you, and you feel forced to hold their hands, because they want to hold yours, and isn’t that enough?

 

She’s read about romance. In theory. The longing looks, the pining, the life changing kiss. All of it fictional, and who could blame her?

She’s a child of divorce, she knows love exists. With conditions, a fine print at the bottom of the contract.

She’s pretty sure she’s never felt that way, about anyone.

 

Before Peter, that is.

 

She doesn’t even understand, because it’s not like it is in the books. She’s not staring at him from the other end of the ballroom, thinking _‘it’s him.’_

It comes progressively, naturally. She looks at him, in class, in clubs, when they hang out together with Ned. She looks at him, and he goes from having nice features to having features she wouldn’t mind kissing.

She wonders, more often than not, what it would be like to be kissed by Peter. Probably wet and sloppy, given how clumsy he is.

She daydreams about being held against him as a slow song plays in the background and bokeh lights sparkle around them.

 

So she’s a romantic. Sue her.

 

She pauses, taking a break to drink a glass of water. She’s been reading for a good hour now, and Peter is showing no signs of exhaustion. It’s also the third time he’s interrupted her so she thinks that he may be more open to discussion than he’s letting on.

She asks:

‘What are the nightmares about?’

 

There is a silence on the other end of the line, and for a second she thinks he’s not going to answer.

‘It’s hard to explain.’

‘Try me,’ she replies, her voice as soft as she can make it to be.

 

‘I...die. Every time. Everything is chaos around me, and I can’t help anyone. I just turn into dust.’

 

‘Ah. That kind of dream.’

‘Yeah.’

 

She closes her eyes. As much as she loves Peter, she’s not sure she’s ready for this. She peeks down at  her hands, unsteady, but _there_.

‘You know, I disappeared that day, too.’

 

His throat emits a muffled sound, and he almost yells.

‘What?! MJ, you didn’t tell us!’

 

She sighs. ‘Correction, Peter. I didn’t tell _you_. Ned knows.’

‘He knows?!’

‘He was kind of…next to me when it happened.’

‘He didn’t tell me,’ Peter says, and she hears the pout in his voice.

 

She chews the inside of her cheek, weighing the pros and cons of telling him the truth. ‘I asked him no to.’

‘ _Why_?’

 

She chuckles. ‘I didn’t want to worry you. I mean… You should have seen yourself, Peter, when you came back. You looked like a ghost. I didn’t want to add on to that.’

‘I’m so sorry, I should have been there, I should...’

 

MJ tugs on one of the loose threads in her sweater in silence.

‘Don’t be. Point is…’ she pauses. ‘I know what it feels like. To be gone, and to come back.’

 

‘Do you feel like, sometimes, you wish you didn’t?’

 

Her mouth gapes. ‘Peter…’

‘You’re right, I’m sorry, let’s go back to the book.’

She pauses. ‘I do.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah. It’s just. I never expected to come back, and for a minute it was almost…’

‘... _freeing_? Like all your fears and responsibilities were gone?’

 

She shrugs. ‘Yeah. But if I didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.’

‘True.’

‘And, uhm. I like… having these conversations with you.’

 

She feels a blush creeping up on her. It’s easier to be honest when she doesn’t have to look at him in the eyes.

She adds:

 

’Not that I like talking about traumatizing stuff that will probably haunt me my whole life, but…’

‘It feels good to talk to someone who understands,’ he finishes.

‘Yes.’

 

He stops.

‘Thank you, MJ. For being there.’

 

She closes her eyes.

‘Again, don’t mention it.’

 

* * *

 

And he doesn’t.

To be fair, she doesn’t bring it up either. She feels weird, like the Peter Parker she talks to at night is a different guy than the one she sees every day at school.

 

As she chews on her pen absentmindedly, she stares at the school TV, Spider-Man backflipping for the billionth time onscreen.

She wonders how many facets of himself he hides from them.

 

And more importantly, if she’ll get to see them all.

All the way up from the front row, Peter turns towards her, lips tugging upward, his eyebrows quirked up in a silent question.

She grins back and nods, focusing on her textbook.

 

It doesn’t matter if he’s a different Peter day and night. She loves them both.

 

* * *

 

After the third week, they don’t even bother to hide it anymore. It’s their routine. He comes home from patrolling, takes a shower, and calls her, if she doesn’t call him first.

 

They chat about school for about ten minutes, then he settles in bed, and she starts reading.

Then, when her voice gets too low, if he’s still awake, they talk.

 

It’s easier to open up to her, in the dead of night, when nothing feels like it will have consequences.

 

Sometimes, he wishes they weren’t talking on the phone.

Because when she cries, soft, quiet tears, all he wants to do is hug her, hold her tight against him and make sure she won’t suffer like that ever again.

 

He feels guilty. Sure, he’s lonely, but he chose to be. He has people who care about his well being.

But from what he’s learned, MJ doesn’t have anyone else than Ned and him. Her mom is out of the picture, left without even a note, and her dad is too busy working to actually _be_ there.

She’s alone, desperately, painstakingly alone.

 

‘Some people aren’t meant to be mothers,’ she’d bitterly said, a couple nights ago.

 

When she cries, he wants to kiss her tears away, one by one.

And maybe he wants to kiss her lips too, when she whispers, ‘Goodnight,’ and it sounds closer to an ‘I love you.’

It’s not like she hasn’t heard him cry either. It’s no secret that he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve. Anyone can pretty much read him like an open book. Ned and May sure do.

But MJ  plays it close to the vest, so no one is there when she cries.

 

‘It wasn’t even the pain, I didn’t care about that. I was just… so scared, and alone,’ she finally admits.

‘MJ. You’re not alone anymore. You’re back, and you’ve got us.’

‘Do I, though?’

 

He’s upset that she’d even doubt him. _Them_ , he corrects himself. So he decides to be honest.

 

‘MJ… You know what happened? When I disappeared? Ned wasn’t there, and neither were you. And all I could think was that I wasn’t ready to go, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye to either of you. So yeah, you’ve got us.’

 

MJ stays silent for a long time, and he wonders if he’s said too much, if this is when she decides to cut this, thing, whatever it is, short. But then, in an almost whisper, she says:

‘I _would never let you say goodbye to me_.’

 

His heart skips a beat.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘You heard me. I forbid you from doing the whole hero goodbye thing. If you need to go, I want you to come back to us.’  She pauses, hesitant. ‘ _To me._ ‘

 

‘Hero…goodbye?’

 

She scoffs.

‘ _Peter_. Please. I know it’s you. I told you, I’m very observant.’

 

So she knows. A wave of relief goes through him. She knows, and she doesn’t seem to be mad at him.

‘Did Ned tell you?’

 

He can practically feel her rolling her eyes.

‘No, Peter, Ned didn’t tell me. You’re just the worst liar I’ve ever seen.’

‘Well I beg to differ.’

 

He can hear the teasing in her voice.

‘Come on, Peter. _Mono_? You’ve never even kissed anyone.’

‘How dare you! I could have, I have-’

 

She laughs. Not mockingly, just softly, as a term of endearment, and he blushes.

‘Fine. You’re right. I’m a virgin who can’t drive.’

 

She gasps.

‘Peter Parker. Did you just quote _Clueless_ at me?!’

 

He smirks.

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘Wait. If you’ve seen it, then…you do know it’s an adaptation of Emma, right?’

 

‘Yup.’

‘And you’ve let me read it to you every night for two weeks?!’

‘Yup.’

 

_‘Why?’_

‘I like your voice.’

 

* * *

 

Now it’s her turn to blush furiously. It doesn’t mean anything, she tells herself.

Except it kind of does. She has a terrible reading voice, it’s soporific, which is why she’s been able to put him to sleep these past few weeks. Her lips quiver.

‘Really.’

 

He whispers:

‘Yes.’

 

She wheezes. According to her alarm clock, it’s half past two already. They’ve been talking for two hours, and are now verging into dangerous territory.

She takes a deep breath, and jumps off the ledge.

‘I like this. Reading to you, talking on the phone…’

 

He chuckles.

‘I could listen to you for four more hours, you know that?’

 

She feels a shiver go through her spine.

This again, is a different side of Peter, and the hardest one to reconcile with the fumbling boy sitting next to her in Spanish class. It’s a side she’s thankful she doesn’t see in the light of day, because she’s not sure she’d be able to keep her secret from him.

And that’s entirely too scary.

‘I…’ she stammers. ‘I think I hear my dad. I’m gonna have to go. Bye.’

‘Wait, MJ!’

 

She hangs up, Jane Austen’s pillar of literature in her hand, and she throws it away as if burned by fire.

 

* * *

 

He sits perfectly still, his phone in hand, for a good ten seconds.

‘Well, that was a total disaster.’

 

He yelps, throwing his phone away in panic as May stands against the doorframe.

‘How much of that did you hear?!’

 

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

‘Enough to know that we should probably talk.’

 

He groans, the heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

‘That bad, huh?’

 

She walks in only to raise a hand and ruffle his hair. She only does this when she wants to comfort him, so she can’t be that mad. He leans into the touch.

‘I’m gonna make tea. Looks like you need some,’ she states.

 

As he contemplates the spoon in his cup, he wonders where to start.

May, thankfully, gives him a nudge.

 

‘How long have you two been talking like that?’

‘A month? Maybe more?’

 

She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes grow sizes and she purses her lips, so he feels obligated to add.

‘It’s not what you think! I was just, we were just…’

‘Talking to each other every night?’

 

His shoulders drop.

‘Yeah…’

 

He doesn’t know what’s worse. If he tells May the truth, she might be the one having trouble sleeping, and the point of this whole…thing with MJ was to avoid causing more pain to his loved ones.

He hates lying to her. May does not deserve any of it. She’s been there, building him up, caring for him the same way she would a son.

When Ben passed, she didn’t even flinch. She would always show him the bright side of her, hold him when _he_ cried, and kept her pain safely locked away behind her bedroom door.

 

He doesn’t want to hear the tears drop from behind the wall, her wailing muffled by her pillows.

What he wants is to be there for her, in the same way that she’s always been there for him.

 

‘I’ve been having a hard time sleeping. Because of the…’ he gestures vaguely, words stuck in his throat. Her happiness vanishes as she starts understanding that this is serious, and she places a hand on top of his.

 

‘Oh _Peter,_ why didn’t you tell me?’

 

His chest feels heavy.

‘I didn’t want to, I mean…You’ve been through enough.’

 

She looks at him, and he can almost see the ghost of Ben reflected in her eyes. He already knows what she’s going to say. That he’s just like _him._

 

‘I know it was dumb. I just… I needed someone to talk to me. MJ… She’s just been reading to me. That’s all we do, I swear. She reads to me, I fall asleep.’

‘It didn’t look like she was reading to you. It looked like, how do young people say it? Flirting. You were flirting.’

 

He glares at her.

‘I think I’d know if I were. I have no game.’

She scoffs.

‘Says who!’

‘Literally _everyone_. There was an article in the school’s paper last year.’

 

May rolls her eyes, and takes a long sip.

‘All I’m saying is, if MJ’s taking time out of her night to do this, she must care about you. At least a little.’

 

His face warms up at the thought, but he doesn’t want to give May the satisfaction so he hides in his cup instead. A quick glance lets him know that she sees right through him.

‘Okay. Well, I’m going back to bed. If you decide to keep on with the courting, please try to keep the volume to a bare minimum. And close the door,’ she adds as she exits their kitchen.

 

* * *

 

They’re not flirting, he decides. Because he’d have to actively want to make a move if that was the case.

And he’s not sure he does.

 

Sure, he thinks about her when he falls asleep. He sits next to her more often at school. Studies her face during movie night.

Her nose crinkles when she laughs, like a cat’s. He likes that a Lot.

But she’s not the same MJ than the one he talks to on the phone. She’s still guarded, despite being in on team Spider-Man, and her face is a wall. A very pretty wall. But whatever.

 

And then, Ned sees his call logs.

By accident, really.

 

He’s asked him to grab his phone to call May, his hands full with books and deli sandwiches.

(he really needs to get better at hiding his backpack), and Ned almost screams his ear off.

 

‘Why do you have so many calls? Holy crap, dude. Why are all those from MJ? Are you guys finally together?!’

 

He coughs.

‘What do you mean, finally?!’

‘Oh uh, I just mean…with the way you two look at each other…’

‘She doesn’t look at me. Wait, does she? Nevermind, I don’t care!’

 

Ned rolls his eyes.

‘God you’re whipped.’

 

He places two hands on each side of Peter’s shoulders, his lips contorted into a disapproving smile.

‘Peter. Listen to me. I love you man, but you have to do something about this. I _cannot_ spend another Friday night at MJ’s sitting between the two of you. It’s like watching the _Bachelor in Paradise_ except there are only two contestants and they’re taking for-EVER to seal the deal.’

 

‘So, not like the Bachelor at all, then.’

 

Ned sighs.

‘I guess you’re right. But please. I beg of you. Just… Do something. Because I know MJ, and she’s not gonna take the first step.’  


 

* * *

 

So he does. He waits until they’re comfortable enough, half drifting off to sleep, and he finally admits it to himself.

 

‘I wish you could be here.’

 

It’s a secret, whispered in hushed tones in between the lines she’s reading.

 

Lately, they talk more than she reads, and she would find it weird, if she wasn’t enjoying it so much.

She likes Peter like this, he’s happier in his own skin, and she wonders if being an Avenger for the most part of high school is what helped him built this newfound confidence.

Which leads to little truth bombs like this one. The problem is, she’s entirely too into it. It’s a game of cat and mouse, where he says something that makes her whole body go limp, and then she cherishes it, turning it over in her mind until the words lose all meaning.

 

She swallows, hard.

‘I wish you could be here, too.’

‘ _Really?_ ’

 

She bites her lip and suddenly remembers to breathe. Good, air. Get that oxygen flowing in her brain so she can stop herself from saying anything she might regret.

‘Yes.’

 

_Damn it._

 

‘I was thinking…’

 

_Don’t say it._

 

‘Maybe we could do that in real life sometimes.’

 

She blames him entirely. His voice always ends up making her feel soft inside, and then she can’t help but be honest. When he finally replies, her stomach does a flip not unlike the one she’s seen him do many, many times. Except his includes a spandex suit.

 

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘Yeah. Just tell me when you’re ready.’

 

She pauses.

‘I…’

‘I’m feeling kinda tired though, so I think I’m gonna sleep.’

 

She’s thankful to him for giving her an out, and immediately answers.

‘Yeah, me too actually. Night, Peter.’

‘Good night, MJ,’ he whispers back.

 

Neither of them find sleep for another hour.

 

* * *

 

‘Hey, it’s me. I don’t think I can do this tonight, I’m- I’m sick.’

 

MJ coughs, not a tiny, dainty one but a real ‘I caught the mother of all colds’ cough.

From the sound of it, Peter is flying through Midtown, because she can practically hear the cab drivers yell at him as he swings from one building to the next.

It’s not that late, but she’s been in bed for most of her evening, her voice going from regular MJ to raspy jazz singer in the span of four hours. She mentally curses Abe for downplaying his cold in rehearsals. Her head feels heavy, and with her dad working at the hospital tonight, she’s pretty certain she won’t have the strength to make herself dinner.

 

‘I could be there in half an hour with soup,’ he says, and she peeks at the clock.

‘Peter, no, it’s…going to take you forever to get to Queens.’

 

‘Not when you don’t have to care about traffic lights.’

 

She laughs, but it turns into a coughing fit.

‘I can’t monopolize a superhero’s evening just because I’m sick.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can,’ he states, matter-of-factly.

 

She sighs. Chicken noodle soup sounds about perfect right now and for once, just once, she wants to indulge herself and be selfish. So what if she wants Peter to herself tonight?

To be fair, she wants him for herself most of the nights. There can only be so many stolen glances and whispered secrets in the dead of night before she snaps. And her brain, the traitor, chooses this moment to manifest itself.

 

‘I’ll leave a window open.’

‘Great. Be there as soon as I can.’

 

He hangs up, and MJ tries to forget about the fact that she’s just invited Peter Parker to her house.

She observes her reflection in the mirror, almost relieved. At least she won’t scare him more than usual.

The good thing about not wearing any makeup is that you look like yourself, even if you’re sick.

 

She sits on her bed, her fingertips tapping on the edge of her bed, waiting for him, her heart beating too fast for her to think about anything else.

 

When he taps on her window, she almost can’t believe her eyes. He’s here. Peter Parker is actually here, perched up on a tree branch like the missing link between them and primates. His eyes are dark, and she feels something inside of her, something she never has to face when they talk on the phone.

 

_Want._

 

Her dad is going to kill her. If she so much as opens that window, she can kiss her freedom goodbye.

But it’s _Peter_ , and like all things related to him, she can’t trust herself.

She unlocks the frame, and he climbs in easily, almost elegantly.

 

‘Hi.’

‘Hey.’

 

‘So… Your room looks different at night.’

 

_Without Ned to diffuse all the tension._

 

‘It does, yeah.’

‘How are you feeling?’

 

She shrugs.

‘I don’t think I’m fully sick yet. My throat itches, but that’s about it. My head’s pounding though, I think I got up too fast.’

 

‘I-uh, I brought you some Advil, and uh, of course, the soup.’

 

As he rummages through his backpack, he stops, eyeing her hesitantly.

‘I also…brought you this. It’s…kind of a thank you gift for all of the help.’

 

He pulls out a copy of _Pride & Prejudice. _She almost whistles. It’s a nice edition. It’s not new, which means it probably smells like old books and it makes her heart sing.

Sorry, _Jane Eyre_ , she thinks as she glances at the book on her bed.

 

‘Thanks. You didn’t have to, but thanks.’

 

He scratches the back of his head.

‘I wanted to give it to you for a while but…I didn’t want to explain it to Ned.’

 

Her head is spinning, and it’s not from the cold.

 

‘So he doesn’t know.’

‘Not about that, no.’

‘Why?’

 

He tilts his head, his cheeks red, lips pinched.

‘Come on MJ, you know why. Don’t make me say it.’

 

She takes a step towards him, bringing him closer to the edge of her bed.

‘I don’t. I really don’t.’

 

From up close, he is  a classical painting, his face red and hair a mess. God, she loves it when he’s flustered like that.

 

‘Because…there are things I want to share with you. And only you.’

 

She’s beaming.

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, _Oh_.’

 

She stands there, needles prickling her toes, not quite looking into his eyes. She’s scared of what she could see in them, so instead she lets herself fall on her bed.

She grabs the cup of soup from the deli bag, and starts eating.

 

Peter just stands there, still holding the book.

‘Do you want me to read it to you?´

 

She gapes at him. This is not their usual deal. Then again, actually acknowledging they’ve been spending most of their nights ‘together’ isn’t their usual deal either.

She nods.

 

‘Sure.’

As she puts the cup on the ground, she pushes herself up in her bed. When Peter doesn’t take another step, she pats the comforter next to her.

‘Come on. It’s no different than when we sit in your bed and watch _Bob’s Burgers_.’

 

* * *

 

This was definitely a mistake.

Being in the same room than her makes the reading thing a thousand times more intimate, and being in the same bed…

 

He watches her lick her lips, transfixed, and he realizes that this has less to do with the reading than with _MJ_.

He inhales deeply. How did she do this, and for weeks? Reading, he realizes, is a much more personal affair than she’d let on.

His voice is lower than it is on the phone, and she’s not looking at him, while all he can do is look at her.

She’s everywhere. In the words that he reads, in the pillow that he’s resting his head against, in the soft gaze she sometimes throw at him, and he wants her.

 

He wants nothing more than to sit up, grab her face between his hands, and kiss her. The realization doesn’t shock him as much as the agonizing pit in his stomach does. He’s never _craved_ anyone that desperately before.

He closes his eyes, focusing on the antics of Mr. Darcy, trying to quiet down, to relax like he always does when she speaks.

He feels a hand on his hair, and nearly gasps.

MJ is touching his hair. No big deal. Friends do that all the time.

 

Then, she slides down, and he feels her body against his, the book safely tucked between them as he barely whispers the words.

She’s here, her face mere inches away from his, cheeks slightly pink, her eyes shining as they don’t look at anything but the book he’s holding.

 

He places his free hand on her arm, letting it slide to rest on her waist, and she stills.

Just as he wonders if he tragically misread the situation, she pulls herself closer.

Her cheek rests against his chest, and he can feel his heart beating erratically. He wonders if she can, too. He suddenly realizes he has absolutely no idea of what is happening to Elizabeth Bennett, because he can’t focus on anything else than Mj’s long lashes, and her breath tickling his neck.

He lets out a shaky sigh in between sentences.

 

Then, surely but slowly, she pushes the book aside and kisses the corner of his mouth.

 

* * *

 

She’s not sure how it happens, but she ends up kissing Peter Parker. In her bed. On a weeknight.

 

And the worst thing is, he kisses her back. And it’s better than the books, the movies, or the TV shows. She thought she’d get one kiss out of her system and then once the fireworks would die down, she’d go back to being composed and unbothered.

What happens is he kisses her back, lips soft, melting against her, and she only wants more.

She pulls him closer, her hands finally, finally going through his hair the way she’s wanted to for two years.

 

She was dead wrong. Peter’s kisses are neither wet or sloppy.

They’re perfect, they’re slow, each one unraveling her a little more than the previous one.

He sighs against her, and she lets a shiver run through her spine. No one warned her about the sighs. She’s going to have to write a letter to Jane Austen and tell her about this, posthumously.

 

‘I’ve wanted to do this for so long,’ he says against her mouth, and she lets herself believe it.

 

She lets out a raspy sigh, and because she can’t have nice things for more than a second, she immediately starts coughing. Peter jumps on his feet, panic in his eyes

‘Oh my god I totally forgot you were sick! Where’s your water bottle? Why don’t you have a water bottle! You need to hydrate, haven’t you seen the memes?!’

 

He turns around like a puppy chasing after its own tail, and she can’t help but laugh. Smooth Peter is gone, and clumsy, adorable Peter, the one she first fell in love with, is back.

As she points towards her school bag, her breathing steadies.

 

‘Relax, Peter, it’s a cold, not malaria. I’d be more worried about you catching it, honestly.’

 

He turns to her, grinning, and actually winks at her as he grabs the bottle.

‘I can’t get sick, you know? One of the many, many perks of being half-boy, half-spider.’

‘And a hundred percent doofus, no doubt,’ she smirks, suddenly shuddering.

 

He drops the act immediately, placing a hand on her forehead.

‘Are you cold? Should we call your dad?’

 

She grunts.

‘Are you crazy? he’s going to kill you, and me, if he finds you here. Just…shut up and use that super warmth to keep me alive, _Twilight_ style.’

 

He chuckles and climbs back into bed, pulling her into a hug.

‘Just so you know, I don’t bite. Or sparkle.’

 

‘Peter.’

‘Yes?’

‘Kiss me again.’

 

He obliges, and which each kiss she feels herself sink closer to sleep. Their eyes stay shut, their limbs intertwined, and when Peter finally drifts off to sleep, he thinks about how he hasn’t had a panic attack in months.

 

He’s pretty sure he won’t have them any more.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked that one! The Poem MJ reads is a rough translation of a french poem from author Arthur Rimbaud, if you want to look it up !


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